Dragon Tales
by RaajmdTMP
Summary: Murder 101- Hastog’s return is marked by the death of a Princeton professor. Ch. 3 also up.
1. Flesh and Blood

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, only the plot (most of it). I'm  
making no money from this. It's only for entertainment, etc.  
  
A/N: This is the first in a three-part series called Ghosts from the Past.  
Be on the look out for the next two parts sometime in the future.  
  
Dragon Tales  
By RaajmdTMP  
  
Chapter 1: Flesh and Blood  
  
"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"  
  
"Why would I do that?"  
  
"Because you knew you had no real chance at scaring me up there. You  
thought you'd have an easier time in the dark, dangerous basement!" the  
young man said while he crept up behind his friend and yelled, "BOO!"  
  
She jumped and punched him in the shoulder. "Jerk."  
  
"And proud of it. Hey, where'd he say the circuit breaker was?"  
  
"On the back wall, next to the tool chest."  
  
"Okay," silence, followed by a crash. "Ah, you know, this would be a hell  
of a lot easier if I had a flashlight."  
  
"No kidding."  
  
"When did Freddy say he'd be back from his camping trip, anyhow?"  
  
"A couple of days, I think. Maybe sooner."  
  
"He better stick to fishing this time. I swear, if he comes home with  
another deer, I'll report him myself."  
  
"No, that wouldn't do. We could always stick him down here and see how long  
it takes him to find the breaker box without a damn flashlight. Poetic  
justice, you know?"  
  
"Yeah, I hear ya. You'd think a guy with as much money as he's got would spring for some better wiring. Put on the toaster and microwave at the same time and the whole house loses power. Damn, something's spilled over here.  
It's as sticky as hell. Hey, I think I found it."  
  
The small metal door was thrown open and hit something solid without the usual clang. Though odd, it was not thought of. Our young man flipped the  
circuits until light bathed the basement.  
  
"See, I told you I could do it," he bragged while turning to his companion on the staircase. Her face was stark white, her hand covering her mouth. "What is it?" She pointed past him. "Oh, come on, you're gonna have to try a little harder than that to get me. There's nothing...OH, MY GOD!!!" The young man turned to come face to face with dear old Freddy, only to drop  
like a rock to the ground, out cold.  
  
~*****~  
  
"Sorry it took so long to get here, Brass. Got stuck in traffic."  
  
"Yeah, well, it's a good thing you're here now. We got ourselves a sick one  
this time."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"DB in the basement. Vic's name is Frederick Presnell. He was supposed to be on a camping trip when two friends found him strung up in the cellar.  
Looks like a damn hunting trophy."  
  
"What were they doing there?" Warrick asked glancing at the couple talking  
to an officer.  
  
"They say the vic took them in after they lost their apartment."  
  
"Nice guy."  
  
"Yeah, right. Good ole' Freddy P."  
  
"What, he had some sort of a record?"  
  
"He was busted a while back for possession of an illegal firearm. He  
claimed it was only illegal if you shot people with it."  
  
"Idiot."  
  
"Lucky idiot. He got away with it. Better hurry up and get in there.  
Grissom's been here twenty minutes already."  
  
~*****~  
  
"Brass was right. This is a sick one. What do you make of it, Grissom?"  
  
Grissom was standing about ten feet away from the body, staring at it  
unblinking, as if in a trance.  
  
"Gris? You all right?" Nick asked as he waved his hand in front of his boss' face. Grissom flinched, jerked his head back and grabbed Nick by the  
wrist. "Whoa, sorry boss. I was trying to get your attention. You were  
standing there just staring into space."  
  
"Not just, Nicky."  
  
"What do you mean?" he asked as he massaged his wrist and wondered vaguely  
if it would bruise.  
  
"I'm observing," he stated without any further explanation as he carefully stepped closer to the body. He held his gloved hand up to the knot, but it  
was beyond his reach. "That seem high to you?"  
  
"It looks like our guy is really tall."  
  
"Or he carries around a step ladder," Warrick added sarcastically while surveying the basement. There was nothing in sight that could be used as a  
stool.  
  
"Which is why you two are going to look for footprints. Maybe we'll be able  
to disprove one of those theories."  
  
"Great. Footprint detail," Nick complained.  
  
"You know, we were both being sarcastic."  
  
"Why don't you start over by the bulkhead? He had to get in here somehow," Grissom said as he backed away from the body. He looked up at its lifeless  
visage for a few more seconds before something caught his attention. A small piece of paper was rolled up and balanced like a pencil behind the  
man's ear. Grissom carefully removed the paper, unrolled it and read  
silently:  
  
To whom it may concern,  
It seems as though poor Freddy here has finally met his match. I regret not being able to see the undoubtedly shocked looks on his friends' faces at his discovery, but I had already out stayed my welcome. Have fun with this one. I know I did.  
Hastog  
  
~*****~  
  
Nick slowly made his way from the bulkhead out looking for anything out of  
the ordinary. When he reached the driveway, he noticed a dark pool of  
liquid in an empty space. "Somebody needs an oil change," he said as he  
walked up to the puddle. The rusty smell in the air grew stronger as he moved closer, making it apparent that the puddle was not oil. He dipped a gloved finger into the pool and held it up under his flashlight revealing its dark red color. Blood, completely out of place in the empty drive and appearing almost black by the light of the moon. "Hey, Warrick! Come check  
this out!"  
  
"Is that blood?" Warrick asked when he reached his colleague. When Nick  
nodded, he continued. "What's it doing out here?"  
  
"Maybe our killer is a little sloppy," Nick answered shrugging his shoulders and snapping a few pictures of the puddle. "Hold this for a sec," he said as he held the camera up to Warrick. "Thanks." He took a swab and  
dipped it into the maroon liquid. He covered and labeled the sample.  
  
~*****~  
  
Three hours later, Gil Grissom sat in his office at the crime lab. His desk was covered with newly developed photos from the crime scene his team just finished processing. As he looked from picture to picture he couldn't fight  
off the feeling he had ever since he walked on the scene earlier that evening. The feeling was just short of déjà vu. He almost felt as if he had  
seen this before but at the same time he was almost sure he hadn't.  
  
The one thing he did feel for sure, as he leaned back in his chair, was that this guy, Hastog, was good. If it indeed was a guy. Grissom was pretty  
sure it was. He was also pretty sure the couple found at the scene had  
nothing to do with it. It just didn't seem right.  
  
Strange that Gil Grissom should have a theory this early in an investigation, isn't it? Well, perhaps you don't know him as well as you  
think you do. He learned long ago not to follow hunches, that evidence never lies. It was much safer to corner a suspect with evidence, than to physically corner them. One stands a better chance at getting out alive.  
  
A knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," he said without  
looking up.  
  
"Hey, Gris. Got anything interesting for me?"  
  
"Hi, Cath. I thought you were on the Denton case."  
  
"Just finished up the paperwork. It was a cut and dry case, Gil. Nothing  
too challenging."  
  
"I wish I could say the same about this one."  
  
"Those the scene photos?"  
  
"Yeah," he answered, pushing them across the desk so she could see.  
"Definitely not cut and dry."  
  
Catherine looked at the vivid pictures intently. "Well, these certainly  
leave nothing to the imagination."  
"You'd be surprised. The pictures hardly do it justice. I haven't seen  
anything like it in years."  
  
"It looks like someone was trying to make a human hunting trophy."  
  
"That's the consensus, yes. It's ironic, Freddy Presnell was a hunter. He  
was supposed to be out hunting when he was found."  
  
"Wait a minute, Grissom. That's Freddy Presnell? The Freddy P.? That moron  
caught with the illegal guns?" she asked, staring incredulously at the  
pictures before her.  
  
"The very same."  
  
"Geez, it's a wonder he lasted this long. I always thought he'd end up shot through the head with a crossbow quarrel or something, like that poacher in  
the east a few years ago."  
  
Grissom appeared to be absorbed in the grisly pictures in front of him and  
was silent for a minute before he responded to her. "Yeah, but this one wasn't..." he trailed off and looked up at her face. "This wasn't getting  
off any easier."  
  
"No, it sure wasn't," she said, eyeing him uncertainly. "Too bad he wasn't  
discovered earlier. You would have had more time with the collected  
evidence before shift ended."  
  
"What evidence?" Grissom asked. He glanced at his watch and realized for  
the first time how close the end of shift was.  
  
"Gil, there's got to be evidence. Look at these pictures."  
  
"I have been. I mean, of course there's evidence. There's blood, all over  
the place, but no viable fingerprints. The only footprints, patent or latent, belong to the people who should have been there. Tony Rogers found him. He stepped in a drying puddle of Presnell's blood when he was trying  
to find the circuit breaker."  
  
"You don't think Rogers did it?"  
  
"No," he answered, shaking his head. He rummaged around his desk for  
something. "So far we only have one semi-useful piece of evidence. The killer left a note, rolled up behind Freddy's ear," he explained, holding out a photocopy of the bloodstained note for her to read. "It doesn't give us much, anyway. The bloody fingerprints on it are useless right now. The  
guy's not in AFIS."  
  
Catherine shook her head when she finished reading the short note. She turned her attention back to the photos covering Grissom's desk. She was  
drawn to one in particular, though there was nothing unusual about it.  
"Grissom, what's that?" she asked, pointing to it.  
  
He looked at her, his expression almost comical. "It's a puddle of blood,  
Catherine."  
  
"Of course, it's a puddle of... Come on, Grissom, did you really think I  
didn't know that?"  
  
"You asked the question." She gave him a rather nasty look at that. "The picture was taken in the middle of the driveway. We haven't figured out why the blood was there, yet. Nick sent a sample to the lab for comparison to  
the Freddy's blood. For now, all we can do is wait. You with me next  
shift?"  
  
"Sure. It looks like you could use some help," she answered, smiling.  
  
"Thanks a lot," he said sarcastically.  
  
~*****~  
  
The room is dark. Its only occupant lay sleeping uneasily on the bed. He is curled on his side and the sheets are tangled around his legs. His face is  
creased with concentration and worry, even in sleep. One arm grips the pillow beneath his head while the other clutches his bare stomach as if in pain. He is not. Any physical pain once caused by his long healed wound has stopped in the years that have passed since it was inflicted. Proof enough is in the raised scar that loops across his abdomen. No, any pain lingering  
from this injury is in his mind.  
  
Would that cause such a restless sleep? Come, follow me to his office. Go quietly, now. We wouldn't want to startle him. Just a quick peek and we'll  
be gone. A faint glow from the computer screen is the only light in the  
room. Manta rays and sharks swim across the screen as the screensaver gurgles. Let's see what he was looking at before he fell asleep, shall we?  
  
Interesting, very interesting. Are you familiar with this case? No? Quite gruesome, really. Two years ago in Clarendon County, Virginia, a thirty-two year old white male was found butchered along with a deer. The man's lungs  
were pulled out his back to look like wings. It's a Norse sacrificial custom, the Bloody Eagle. A neo-Viking was doing it in the thirties, but  
this one was different. Both the deer and the man were cut for meat.  
  
Disturbing images to fall asleep to. Definitely not fodder for a good night  
sleep, anyway. It's best that we take our leave now, before our weary  
friend catches us with our noses where they don't belong.  
  
~*****~  
  
The nightshift CSIs were sitting around a table, pouring over evidence and crime scene photos. They were getting nowhere fast with this Presnell case. It appeared that sleeping on it had not helped one bit. Their only hopes  
lay in the results of the tests set into motion before.  
  
"Greg, do you have the results on the puddle of blood?"  
  
"Yep." Everyone stared at him, expectantly.  
  
"And?" Nick asked, finally breaking the silence. It seemed that Greg was attempting to take the art of the dramatic pause to new heights.  
  
"It's not the victim's blood."  
  
"Then who's is it?"  
  
"Not who."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
"What are you talking about, Greg?"  
  
"The blood's not human. It's sheep's blood," Greg concluded, looking pleased with this latest round of word play.  
  
"Sheep's blood? What the hell is sheep's blood doing in the middle of our crime scene?"  
  
"Sacrificial lamb," Grissom answered, out of the blue. It hadn't even seemed like he had been paying attention.  
  
"Grissom?" Catherine looked at her friend questioningly.  
  
"Freddy Presnell was a sacrificial lamb," Grissom said while picking up the bagged note off the table in front of him. It was the original and showed the bloody and useless fingerprints in sharp contrast. "We haven't seen the  
last of Hastog."  
  
-TBC-  
  
Next Chapter: Murder 101- Hastog's return is marked by the death of a  
Princeton student. 


	2. Murder 101

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, only the plot (most of it). I'm making no money from this. It's only for entertainment, etc.

Author's Note: The style of the murder in this chapter may seem familiar. This is intentional. Though it may not seem it at first, there is a method to my madness. Bear with me. I apologize for taking so long to update. I've had a case of writer's block with this chapter, mixed with some unfortunately stressful family problems. I have much of the rest of this planned out; hopefully I'll be able to post quicker.

Dragon Tales

By RaajmdTMP

Chapter 2: Murder 101

"We haven't seen the last of Hastog? You mean you think he's going to kill again?"

Gil Grissom sat with the note in his hand and nodded grimly.

"How do you know?"

"You said it yourself. Why would there be lamb's blood at our crime scene if it wasn't to send a message?"

"We could have another serial on our hands."

Gil nodded again. "We'll just have to wait and see."

"You might not have to wait that long," Captain Jim Brass said from the doorway. "We have an unusual scene in a hotel room off the Strip. Apparently, someone left a whole bunch of strange weapons in the room after checkout."

"No body?"

"No."

Grissom sighed and stood up from the table. "You coming, Catherine?"

"Count me in," she replied, standing up as well.

~*****~

Twenty minutes later, Catherine and Gil found themselves looking at what definitely was an 'unusual scene.' It seemed that there was every type of tool, gadget and device designed to inflict pain on another human being scattered around the area.

"Who called it in?" Grissom said, taking in the dungeon of a hotel room.

"Cleaning lady, Emma Rickman. 'Do Not Disturb' signs don't mean much after you've checked out. The room was registered to a 'Kestime Truthta,' who apparently checked out in the late afternoon. Miss Rickman walked in, minding her own business, and," Brass gestured to the troubling sight before them. "Found this."

"There isn't much blood," Gil stated, walking cautiously around the room. There was a well-stocked office area in the corner. It seemed this hotel catered to the wealthy business traveler. 'Even a Xerox machine,' he thought, shaking his head slightly. 

Even with the overwhelming assortment of torture instruments strewn around the rest of the room, the neat and tidy desk seemed to unnerve him for some reason. 

"Definitely enough tools to do the damage," Catherine commented, her eyes darting around the room. "Where do we start?"

"See if you can narrow down which of those 'tools' drew the blood," Grissom answered, still studying the office.

Catherine began to painstakingly test the weapons for blood. About ten minutes later, a sound startled her from her work. She looked over to where Grissom stood and saw that he had turned on the copier next to the desk. A piece of paper slid out of the machine and Gil picked it up with a gloved hand. "What is it?" she asked. He stared at the page in his hand with a puzzled expression. "Gil?"

"Cath, what does this look like to you?" he responded, perplexed. He held the paper out for her to see.

"A recipe for dip," she answered.

"No, not that. This," he clarified, indicating a cloudy area on the paper. "Does that look like a face?"

She looked closer. He had a point. The shadow darkening the sheet looked like the side of a person's face. She looked up and met Grissom's eyes. She could almost see the wheels turning in that mind of his. Suddenly, with a look of dawning understanding, his eyes traveled from hers to the torture instruments and finally back to the desk. She looked with him, trying to figure out what he had discovered. Abruptly, he moved from her side to his case of supplies. He came back with the same ones she had been using, swabs and Luminol. "Grissom?" she said putting a hand on his arm. He started and looked at her.

"What?" She gave him a questioning look. He realized quickly enough that he hadn't explained what he was up to. "Catherine, what have I said about making assumptions?"

"You said to assume nothing. It makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me' both."

"Exactly," he said. He picked up a staple remover from the desk and swabbed the metal teeth. One drop of Luminol confirmed the presence of blood.

~*****~

An hour later, Grissom had finished testing the office supplies, finding evidence on everything from the stapler to the pushpins. After their revelation, Catherine had set back to work testing the torture instruments, though she believed, correctly, that there would not be a trace of blood on them.

Grissom sighed as he eyed the mounting evidence. There was a lot really but, without a body, there was no evidence of murder. Evidence of violence, not death. There had not even been enough support to say that a struggle took place. First impressions obviously weren't always correct. The horrid medieval devices around the room would seem out of place in a normal hotel room, but it seems the room's former occupant had a liking for such things. There were various books dealing with similar subjects, pain and torture and death. 

Catherine sat on the floor by the window, flipping through a book about cannibalism. Gil had discovered it while perusing the drawers and had quickly set it aside with a look of disgust plain on his face. She had been drawn back to the book when she had finished her testing because it was the only one in the considerable collection to have a bookmark.

The improvised bookmark was holding the reader's place in a chapter titled 'Modern Cannibalism' but it was the bookmark itself that caught her attention. It was a program from a European exposition called Atrocious Torture Instruments. The exhibition toured Europe, the program explained, and stayed for an unprecedented six months in Florence's famed Forte di Belvedere. The first stop on its new North American tour would be New York, continuing on to such places as Baltimore and Los Angeles. Join the crowds at any of these cities and marvel at the collection of more than twenty classic instruments of torture and extensive information on how they were used.

Catherine bagged the program, stood up and headed for the door. There wasn't much else that could be done here. It was better for them to start processing the evidence at the lab until such time as a body turns up.

Grissom stood up from his place by the window to follow her out. The book Catherine had been examining lay open on the desk where she left it as she exited. Cold eyes gazed up at him from under the chapter heading and he closed the cover on them as he went by.

~*****~

Gil opened the driver's side door to his SUV and was about to get inside when something across the street caught his attention. He straightened up, closed the door and walked over without so much as a backwards glance to Catherine. Luckily for her, she had known him long enough to recognize when he noticed something with potential importance. She grabbed the kit she had just put away and followed him across the street. 

Blood drops. They seemed to have fallen from relatively close to the ground, but they still pointed the pair in the right direction. Gil and Catherine followed the trail into a small park. The trail wasn't as easy to follow as it could have been. It looped around in a staggered pattern until it finally came to a stop under a large tree. The source of the blood became apparent as they rounded the tree. The furry white body of a small dog lay lifeless at the base, its short coat matted with blood.  

"Poor thing," said Catherine, looking down at the battered animal. "I wonder why he came all the way out here."

"They say animals like to find privacy to die."

A breeze blew through the park as Grissom bent down to get a closer look at the canine corpse. There was a creaking noise and the sound of rubber squeaking against rubber coming from above. Catherine looked up at the tree to see what had caused the noise.

"Uh, Gris? I don't think this little guy died alone."

"Huh?" he replied, looking up at her. He then craned his neck, following her gaze. "Oh."

"We should call Brass, get him back out here with some backup," said Catherine.

Grissom got back to his feet and brushed off his knees. "Yeah," he agreed, still staring up.

Hanging from one of the thicker branches high above the pair's heads was a young man, nude save for a pair of black boxers. His wrists and ankles were bound together with pieces of cloth. A bright orange extension cord served as a noose. His face was upturned to the branch that suspended him and his eyes were wide open, partially covered only by his unruly sandy hair.

~*****~

"Well, that explains a lot," Brass said as he stared up at the obviously tortured body dangling above the park. The once quiet area was now bustling with activity. Almost all nightshift workers were on the scene. Warrick was nearly the only one who stayed behind at the lab, still trying to work out anything useful from the Presnell evidence. Grissom had set Nick to work on the dog as soon as he arrived. Now Gil and Catherine were telling Sara the details she missed on her day off.     

"Sheep's blood, huh? Wouldn't be into any kind of devil worship, would he?"

Gil shook his head. "I don't think so. But I'm not ruling anything out yet." He watched as the workers began to free the victim from his makeshift gallows. "Hey, careful up there! Make sure you cut it in the middle. We don't want to lose that knot."

The young man was slowly and painstakingly lowered to the ground. The trio walked quickly over to the body. The signs of torture were even more apparent up close.

"This one's been through hell," said David, the coroner on scene. "And it took a while, too. Some of these had already started to heal," he added, indicating the scratches on the victim's bound hands. "There's a piece of paper tied to his wrists, Mr. Grissom."

"Let me see," Grissom said, holding out a gloved hand. He unfolded the crumpled paper and held it so his colleagues could read along.

My dear Dr. Grissom,

 I'm flattered you have taken an interest in my case. It will make all this so much more meaningful. I can see the headlines now: ELUSIVE KILLER STRIKES AGAIN, INVESTIGATORS BAFFLED! Or something to that effect. Not that it really matters. By the way, what did you think of the room? Our friend here thought it was to die for… See you around.

Hastog 

"Unbelievable!" Sara exclaimed. "You were right. He is enjoying this."

"Obviously. And it's just what Vegas needs right now, another depraved bastard playing with out heads," Catherine responded. Grissom was still holding the note extended from his body and he was watching David work. "You're being awfully quite, Gil."

He shook his head slightly and then tilted it, looking at the corpse with obvious confusion. "I feel like I've seen this before."

Sara took a closer look as well, unconsciously adopting her boss' posture as she did so. "Now that you mention it, this does seem familiar."

"What exactly are you two going on about?"

"The torture, the condition of the body, the position," Grissom explained, shifting his gaze back up to the tree. "I recognize it."

"From where?"

His brow furrowed. There was something else. He couldn't put his finger on what, but he knew he was missing something important. "I don't know. Maybe I read about it somewhere. I can't remember."

"Sounds like something that would warrant a search," Brass added, joining them as the body was moved away.

"Good idea, Jim. Sara…" he started, turning to her.

"I'm on it," she agreed, without argument. Normally, she might have protested to being exiled from the scene but she was anxious to find the answer to this puzzle.

"Good. Catherine, care to start sifting through Mr. Truthta's personal effects?"

"Sure. You coming with?"

"No, I'm going to stay here with Nick and process the scene. You and Sara see what you can find back at the lab. Call me if you get anything useful."

"I'm on it," she said, echoing her colleague. Grissom frowned faintly.

"Oh, and check in with Warrick. See if he came up with anything," he called after her retreating form.

"Yes, master," she replied sarcastically.

~*****~

"This guy's going to have us running in circles."

"Not if we can help it, Nick," Grissom answered as he held open the door to the crime lab with his back, allowing the younger man to enter ahead of him with his bagged evidence. "We just have to take our time and sort through all this. He's bound to have messed up somewhere."

"Gil!"

He turned his head in the direction of the call. "Hey, Cath. You find something?"

"Actually, Sara did. She found that case you were talking about. It was last year, out of Miami. College professor up a tree without a ladder. Matches this case to a 'T.'"

"Good. We should give our Floridian friends a call, ask them about it."

"Already done. They'll be sending the info up, as soon as day shift starts," she paused, looking at her watch, "which is soon. 'H' is on vacation, but he'll call us when he gets back."

"'H'?"

"Horatio Caine."

"You're on first letter basis with him, I see," he teased with an amused little smirk on his face.

"That I am, 'G,' that I am."

"I'm impressed. Where is Sara?"

"Seeing if she can track down the guy that covered the Miami case for the papers. He's supposed to be local. I told her she could run with it."

"I'm glad to see you can do my job."

"Very funny."

"Has David started on Kestime yet?"

"Not yet. I was going to head over there as soon as I called you. Since you're here, why don't we go down now?"           

~*****~

"What have we got, David?" Gil asked as soon as he crossed the threshold into the morgue.

"Oh, Grissom, you're back. Hello, Catherine."

"Hi, David. You got anything for us?"

"Just the preliminary. He didn't bleed out."

"Really?"

"Yes, whoever did this managed to miss all major organs and blood vessels."

"So, the cause of death was…"

"Asphyxiation. It's a wonder, though, with all the different injuries. I've been trying to count them. I was up to forty-seven when you came in."

"Look at his feet," said Cath, indicating the small puncture wounds. "Those must have hurt." 

"Yeah, what do you think made those? Thin, sharp object like a needle or a—"

"Pushpin. Cath and I found evidence of blood on the office supplies in the hotel room."

"On the office supplies? Really? Well, how do you explain this?" David walked around to the man's head and showed them his eyes, which were still wide open.

"What's wrong with them?"

"Apart from the superglue holding them open, they've got retinal burn. How do you get snow blindness in the middle of the dessert?"

"Wait a minute, I remember. In the article Sara found, they said the snow blindness was caused by the—"

"Copier."

"Yeah. This is weird. To think someone's done this before."

"I think that's the point, Catherine. Thirteen different kinds of wounds, thirteen weapons…one killer."

"A copy cat."

"Exactly."

-TBC-

Next Chapter: F/X- Hastog hits closer to home when he copycats a killer the Vegas CSIs have dealt with. (I'm sorry, Jackie-boy!) 


	3. FX

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the recognizable characters in this story. Heck, I don't even own some of the unrecognizable characters. I don't own the song, either. It's called _No Mystery_ and can be found on the CD _The Great Symphony_ by Brian Maes. You can order that off his website, www.brianmaes.com, if you're so inclined. 

Dragon Tales

By RaajmdTMP

Chapter 3: F/X

Grissom, Catherine, Sara, Warrick and Nick were crowded in Gil's office, updating each other on their respective discoveries. Most came up empty. Nick had concluded that the dog had been killed much earlier than the torture victim. Gil and Catherine had the only semi-useful revelation to be shared, that being Hastog seemed to be copying crimes. 

"How'd you make out with that reporter, Al Funt?" Catherine asked Sara.

"Well, needless to say he wasn't in, he works days. I _was_ able to set up a meeting with him, day after tomorrow."

"Good. Maybe talking to someone with first hand knowledge of the case can tide us over until Caine calls us back. See if Funt can tell you anything we don't know."

"Is this good news I hear?" Brass said from the doorway.

"Moderately good news."

"Well, I think I can make our outlook even better. I got an ID for your vic. Just finished talking to the family ten minutes ago. They're from _Montana_. Name's Kevin Graham." 

The expression of interest on Gil's face changed into something blank, empty. "Kevin Graham?" Grissom grabbed the autopsy photo of the young man. _You've got to be kidding me._ "How…"

"He was a professor at Princeton. When he didn't return from his vacation, his boss started to worry. Wasn't like him not to call. Then she saw the news story."

Gil nodded distractedly, eyes still on the picture. "Who's coming for Ke…for the body?"

"His mother. She said she'd be here by tomorrow morning."

"Can I…I'd like to speak to her."

"Anything you want, pal. You're the boss," Brass said, looking at his colleague oddly. "Remember?"

"Yeah, of course," Gil said absently, staring at the autopsy photo in bewilderment. This continued for a few minutes, his co-workers watching him, before he rose abruptly and fled his office. 

* * * *

Gil Grissom was in his blue Tahoe SUV in the parking lot outside the LVMPD Crime Lab. He planned on leaving, but hadn't quite made it that far. Now, he lay reclined in the driver's seat with an arm over his eyes, his glasses in his hand. He had the radio on, loud enough to be heard from a short distance away. In brief pauses in the music, his hitched breathing could be heard.

* * * *

I can see through the smoke

Somethin' is going wrong

Talk to me baby

Tell me what's goin' on

I'm not sure what it is

But I can make it right

We can wrap it up together

Put it out of sight

* * * *

Catherine Willows walked out of the crime lab. Following Grissom's hasty retreat from his office, she had given him a few minutes to calm down from whatever was bothering him before setting out to find him. Her search had brought her to the parking lot after she turned up nothing inside. Perhaps he had…no, his SUV was still there. He hadn't left. She strode closer to the vehicle and noticed the faint sound of music emanating from it. It wasn't Gil's usual classical music, oddly enough. Approaching the passenger side, she glanced inside. She knocked swiftly on the window. 

* * * *

Don't you see?

I'm like a willow tree

I'm gonna bend for you

It's no mystery

Don't you know?

I'm goin' where you go

You put the love in me

It's no mystery

* * * *

The rapping sound of knuckles on glass brought Grissom from his reverie. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes as he turned to see who had disturbed him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and unlocked the door.

"Hey, Cath."

"Hey, yourself," she paused, taking in his appearance. She didn't ask if he had been crying. It was apparent enough. His beard had caught a good deal of moisture from his tears and his eyes were red. "So… what was that back there?"

"Nothing," he attempted, but his voice was rough, almost cracking.

"You pull a vanishing act over nothing? I don't think so."

"It isn't anything to worry yourself with."

Her eyebrows lifted, threatening to disappear into her hair. "_Right…_" she drawled. She climbed into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. "I'm not even going to ask if you want to talk about it."

He let out a huff and threw his arm back over his eyes. All that could be heard in the car for a few minutes was the song on the radio.

* * * *

There's a face of a stranger

Lookin' back at me

I know you're in there somewhere

Darlin' you've got to be

You know you keep me waiting

Just like you always do

But if it takes too much longer

I'm comin' after you

* * * *

Grissom felt movement next to him and heard the clicking sound of the seat reclining. He ventured a glance at Catherine, only to see her stretched out in the seat opposite, her head supported by her hand.

"Nice place you've got here." Gil snorted and Catherine caught a hint of a smile on his lips. "Hey, you okay?" she asked gently. She was rewarded with a smirk as he turned, adopting her position.

"I thought you said you weren't going to ask."

"I lied."

* * * *

Don't you see?

I'm like a willow tree

I'm gonna bend for you

It's no mystery

Don't you know?

I'm goin' where you go

You put the love in me

It's no mystery

* * * *

Grissom watched Catherine's concerned face for a moment before answering. "I'll be all right, Cath." She opened her mouth to argue the point further. "I promise," he said, cutting her off.

"You know I'm here, though, if you change your mind and want to talk."

"I know." 

* * * *

You open the window

I'm in the air

You tell me a story

I listen with care

* * * *

"I better get going then. Got to pick up Linds." Catherine earned an all out smile at the mention of her daughter. "Maybe you could come by later, she's been asking for you." At the slightly reluctant look on his face, she added, "Or you could try and catch up on sleep. God knows you need it."

"Thanks, Cath."

She smiled back at him before readjusting her seat and stepping outside. She closed the door carefully, waved goodbye and headed towards her own car.

"For everything," he finished, watching her retreating form. 

* * * *

Don't you see?

I'm like a willow tree

I'm gonna bend for you

It's no mystery

Don't you know?

I'm goin' where you go

You put the love in me

It's no mystery

Don't you see?

I'm like a willow tree

I'm gonna bend for you

It's no mystery

Don't you know?

I'm goin' where you go

You put the love in me

It's no mystery

It's no mystery

It's no mystery

It's no mystery…

* * * *

The echoes of the chords fade as the young man becomes lost in thought. He sits on the hotel bed, the guitar balanced on his thigh. The last few months had been hell for him, ever since he celebrated his twentieth birthday in August. His sister started college in September and he was left to fend for himself. It had been his choice, mind you. He had tried the college thing for a year and it didn't work out. After all he'd been through in his lifetime, school didn't hold his attention. 

He never dreamed he would be following in the footsteps of his best friend's brother, but there it was. He almost laughs at the memory of the reaction of his friends' mother, before he remembers his own mother's reaction. He felt he had disappointed her, and that was one thing he never wanted to do. She had experienced enough disappointment to last a lifetime.

He frowns, laying the guitar down on the bed and standing. He walks over to the window and pulls back the curtain. The neon lights of the city shine brightly against the dusk gray sky. The excitement in the city below him is palpable. He'd been many places in his short life and Vegas was the strangest. That was certainly saying something, when it came to his life.

His career as a photographer has started out a bumpy one. He sold a few photos from his mother's gigs to what he thought was a legitimate newspaper. The pictures eventually wound up in a tabloid article exploiting the death of his father. It was amazing that fifteen years after his father's death they still wouldn't let it go. He had had enough of it. If his father deserved anything, it was to rest in peace.

His mother didn't blame him for it. She was, as always, understanding. When he had told her he was going to try to find work, she insisted on paying for hotel rooms until he got on his feet. He grudgingly accepted, because he had no other choice.

He was getting there, though. Tomorrow he was showing his portfolio to a company in town. It was a corporate job, nothing really creative about it, but it was still a job. His mother called it a stepping-stone.

The young man let the shade fall back into place and headed for the bathroom. If he was going to get any sleep tonight he needed to relax and he couldn't think of anything better for that than a hot shower. 

* * * *

"It's déjà vu, all over again, all over again," Brass said, standing next to the two CSIs. Shift had barely even started fifteen minutes ago.

"Never thought I'd see this again," Warrick agreed. Sara stood on his other side, case in hand.

"I guess we shouldn't underestimate Hastog's observational skills. I though we'd be through with this now that Millander's dead," Sara said, looking at the scene before her. The young man lay in the bathtub on top of the blanket from the bed. He had been shot in the stomach and the gun had been placed in his right hand. In his left was a small tape recorder. It had been staged with incredible accuracy. "He's so young."

"Do we have an ID, Brass?"

"Room was registered to a Jack Phillips. License confirms," he answered, holding up the bagged wallet.

"When was he born?"

"Give you one guess," he said, handing the bag to the pair.

"August 17, 1983," Sara read. "He was twenty."

"We gotta call Grissom." 

* * * *

The phone rang in Grissom's office just as Catherine walked by looking for him. Not seeing him anywhere, she headed in and picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Catherine?"

"Yeah."

"Where's Grissom? We tried his cell but he's got it turned off."

"That's a good question. I was just searching for him myself. What did you want him for?"

"We just showed up at another Hastog killing. He's hit closer to home this time."

"What is it?"

"Millander."

"He copied Millander?"

"Pretty good imitation, too."

"Well, you two keep working. I'll fill Grissom in when I find him."

"Thanks, Catherine."

"Hang on a second, Sara. Did he leave a note?"

"Haven't found one yet. He left the usual, tape recorded 'suicide' note, and the murder weapon."

"Yeah, um…call me if you find a note, will you?"

"Sure."

* * * *

Molly Graham sat at the table in a room not far from the morgue. She had just been taken to see her son. She stayed long enough to positively identify him before she needed to get some fresh air. Jim Brass had taken her to sit down while she composed herself. They had been conversing quietly for a few moments.

"Ms. Graham, can I ask you a few questions?"

"Will it help find out who did this to Kevin?"

"It may help."

"It won't take long?" Brass shook his head. "All right, then."

"What did your son teach?"

"Psychology."

"Were any of his students angry with him, that you know of?"

"I don't think so. At least not enough to kill him. And why would they follow him to Vegas?"

"Stranger things have happened, ma'am." She gave him a look that clearly said _Tell me about it_. He smiled but sobered quickly. Back to the matter at hand. "Ms. Graham, is there anyone who would want to hurt your son?"

"Hurt Kevin? No, no one."

"Your ex-husband…you and he break up amicably?"

"Not really. We—Wait a minute. You think Will did this?"

"I'm not thinking anything right now."

"No, no, I know what you're doing. It's not going to work. Will was a lot of things, but he'd never…he wouldn't try to hurt Kevin. He wasn't like that…"

"When was the last time you saw your ex, Ms. Graham?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "If you are going to continue asking questions like that, Captain Brass, I… I don't have to sit here and take it. You want to hear about Will? Find him and ask him yourself." She stood up from the table and started for the door.

"Ms. Graham, hang on a second. My colleague Grissom from the crime lab wanted a word with you. If you could—"

"Where is he then?"

"He's probably running late, he'll be here—"

"If he'd really wanted to talk to me, he'd have been here on time. He can go jump off a bridge, for all I care. I'm going to go sign for my son, if that's not too much trouble," she hissed.

Brass gestured that she could go. As she turned around to face the door, it swung open. She came face to face with Grissom, who was arranging the folders he was carrying. All the color her face had gained during her standoff with Brass drained quickly away. When Grissom looked up from the files, he blanched as well. His skin was deathly pale under his beard. After a few seconds of strained silence, Molly regained some of her composure, along with her anger.

"Gil Grissom," she stated flatly. 

He still seemed unable to speak. She shook her head disbelievingly, strode over to him and slapped him hard across the face, before storming from the room. He staggered back into the door from the force of the blow.

"Hey!" Jim called after her as he started to follow. Gil stopped him, a hand on his arm.

"Let her go," he said blankly.

"She slapped you!"

"She just lost her son."

"She hit you for no—"

"Maybe…maybe she had a reason," Grissom said soberly, gently touching his stinging cheek. 

* * * *

Who is Hastog? Why is he killing these people? And what's up with Grissom? Find out that and more in the continuing Dragon Tales. 

Next Chapter: Collateral Damage- What will the CSIs do when Hastog kills someone important to their world? 


End file.
